


all the stars i've loved

by glorious_spoon



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Future Fic, Gen, Legends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-25
Updated: 2010-08-25
Packaged: 2017-12-15 16:51:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/851808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glorious_spoon/pseuds/glorious_spoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All legends start somewhere. Future-fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	all the stars i've loved

They say there's a car that rides down lonely highways, a black car with three-quarters of a century and a million miles of road on her wheels. You can hear the engine sometimes at night, like the deep-throated purr of a big cat. The rush of air in the slipstream, the burning smell of exhaust.  
  
Sometimes, they say, you can hear music. The stuff that grandparents still listen to these days, eyes closed to the beat of ghosts with wild hair and loud guitars.  
  
There are a hundred stories about the Winchester brothers. Winchester like the rifle, and when that Stanford professor did a lecture about the Winchester stories a few years back, he speculated about the integration of gun politics into American outlaw legends.  
  
The title of the lecture was 'Ghosts, Guns, and Glory.' It was well-received in general, although someone did submit a scathing critique to the Stanford Daily under the name of J. Page the following week.   
  
They say there's a cemetery in Kansas where a headstone reads Mary Winchester. That much is true. The photo of her grave decorates paranormal websites across the internet.  
  
They say that if you go and stand by Mary's grave the night of May second, you can hear angels and demons battling. That's the story, anyway. If anybody's tried it--and they probably have, people are like that--they kept what they saw to themselves.  
  
They say that sometimes, if you happen to stop at the right kind of roadside diner at the right time of day, you'll see two men in a booth in the back. They'll be big men, middle-aged and nondescript, and they'll speak with the rhythm of a conversation that's been had a thousand times. The taller one will order pie, and the shorter one will smile at the waitress when she brings it over.  
  
They'll tip three times what their meal is worth, and outside in the parking lot will be a black 1967 Chevrolet Impala.  
  
That's how the story goes, anyway.


End file.
